Awake
by greymantledlady
Summary: Pilotverse fix-it. Sherlock is in a coma, and the events of S1-4 are a kind of lucid dream. Also, hospital!confessions, clearing the air, soft pilotverse Sherlock and John, and John Not Hitting Sherlock TM. Sherlock/John.


Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, season 4 would... not have gone the way it did.

* * *

 _Everything is black, and cold, and lonely._

 _Sherlock's drifting – drifting, anchorless, reaching, reaching, pleading for someone to take his hand in the darkness. So much pain, so trapped, so – alone – alone – alone, oh God. He's reaching, there's something he_ _ **needs**_ _so much, so badly, but it's never quite there, never quite within his reach, a taunting temptation._

 _The fate of Tantalus._

'…Sherlock – Sherlock! Can you hear me?'

 _Where's John. He needs John, he needs him now, right_ _ **now**_ _, he's racing up endless flights of stairs, catching a glimpse of John's coat or heel. There are so many stairs, so many stairs, but Sherlock will run and run and run for eternity if there's a chance of catching John._

 _He needs John, he needs him!_

'Sherlock – Christ, Sherlock! God, just – just wake up! Please wake up, don't do this to me, just – just don't. Do this.'

 _There's flashes, so many things happening. He's living them, feeling them, but somewhere inside he knows it's all wrong. Good things, terrible things, so much pain, so much suffering. John –_ _ **John**_ _! John's afraid, John's on the ground and Sherlock's high above him, too high, tears on his face, and he has to jump, with so many things left unsaid. Sherlock jumps and dies and then somehow he's alive again but John doesn't know._

 _John punches him._

 _There's a woman there, a blonde woman. John looks at her, loves her. Something is tearing wildly inside Sherlock's chest, like a creature mad with pain, trying to break out. John marries her, marries the woman, and it hurts, it hurts, everything hurts so much, but Sherlock flays himself alive for John's happiness and keeps smiling till the end, and John never notices that he's torn and bleeding and dying._

'Jesus, oh God, Sherlock, stay with me, darling, please just stay with me, please…'

 _Darling,_ _ **dar**_ _ling,_ _ **dar**_ _ling… the blonde woman is having a baby. John's baby. John is hers, John doesn't want Sherlock any more, John only wants_ _ **her**_ _, her and the baby. The woman laughs and lies and kisses John and speaks to Sherlock in a voice like sweet poison._

 _Then she shoots him._

 _But John wants her, so Sherlock comes back to life, again, makes it alright for John, patches it over so that John can have the blonde woman he wants, the woman he_ _ **chose**_ _, and it hurts it hurts it hurts._

 _It's all so fast, so fast –_

 _The baby comes the woman dies it's Sherlock's fault. He's ruined John's life, John's perfect life with the lying woman and the baby._

 _John's hitting him._

 _John's – John's hitting him and hitting him and hitting him till he's on the ground, and then he kicks him and everything's bleeding and red pain and Sherlock turns his face up for more, because it's his fault, everything is his fault._

'Dammit, dammit, Sherlock, you can't, you can't do this to me. Don't you bloody dare, you absolute dick, God, Sherlock, I love you, please, I need you…'

 _John's voice. John – John needs something. But there's a dog and a prison and a woman and an east wind, and Sherlock's struggling in a dark pit, chasing up endless stairwells, down alleys and streets and over rooftops, following John, always trying to reach him, and John is always beyond his reach, but John – John_ _ **needs**_ _him._

 _That was John's voice. John needs him, and he needs John, and he flies, flies faster than the dreamscape, and reaches, and_ _ **believes –**_

 _And catches John's hand in his own._

* * *

It's dark, again, beyond his closed eyelids, but this darkness is comfortable, gentle. John is there. John's hand is holding his, warm and blunt and strong, and everything's okay. He's safe. He's not alone.

'John,' Sherlock mumbles. His throat hurts and his eyes feel gummed shut, too heavy to open. 'John…'

'Sherlock?' It's John's voice, John's nicest voice, the soft knitted jumper one. 'Hey. It's okay. I've got you. God, you scared me.' His hand strokes the side of Sherlock's face, and it feels nice.

'Love you – love you too,' Sherlock croaks contentedly, turning his face a little, into the touch. There's a sharp little shocked intake of breath from John, and then something like a tiny broken whisper of a laugh; and Sherlock smiles and drifts back into sleep thinking what lovely little sounds John makes, lovely sounds for Sherlock.

* * *

The next time he's aware of himself, his head's aching like crazy, but he manages to crack open his eyes. The light hurts, so he blinks rapidly, trying to make out what's around him. 'Gah, _hurts_ ,' he croaks.

'Hello to you too,' John says, and there's a smile in his voice, so everything must be alright. John's moving around and he does something and the light goes dim, and he can see. Hospital bed – IV – medical equipment – expensive hospital.

'What did Mycroft pull to get me in here?' Sherlock asks, and winces, because his throat is like sandpaper and his voice is like a saw. ' _Ow._ '

'Here,' John says, and then he's being tipped up, and there's a glass of something cool at his lips, John's hand steadying the back of his head. Sherlock swallows, the water running down his throat in delicious trickles, and when he tries to speak again it's a little easier.

'What happened?' He looks at John properly for the first time since waking up, and John's so beautiful. John's looking at him, and his smile is a bit lopsided, wobbly; and then he shakes his head and leans forward and puts his arms carefully around Sherlock, avoiding the tubes and patches, his nose pressed into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock freezes for a second, but the hug is soft and good and _John_ , and he cautiously hugs back, as much as he can.

After a few moments, John pulls back with a sort of sniffing sound. 'You were unconscious,' he informs Sherlock. 'How much do you remember?'

Sherlock frowns. 'Not much,' he says. 'Running down… a street? Deserted, bright sunlight. Then nothing.'

'He hit you with a wood plank,' John tells him grimly. 'You were unconscious for two days. I was – I was bloody terrified, Sherlock.' He turns his face away, and Sherlock can see a muscle clenching and unclenching in his jaw, can see John breathing deep purposeful breaths to stay calm – and suddenly, like a shock of cold water, he remembers.

' _God, Sherlock, I love you…'_

 _I love you I love you I love you_. John had said he loved him, John had – John… God!

'John!' he says, trying to struggle upright. 'John, John, you said – you said!'

'Stay still!' John says sharply. 'You're going to pull something out.'

'But you said – !' It's so hard to stay still, his body feels full of live buzzing ants, he wants to see John's face, John's eyes. But John won't look at him, just goes on staring at the hospital blanket covering the bed.

'Yes, I said it, God help me,' John says, and his voice is low and tired, and just like that the buzzing inside Sherlock just – stops, something going cold and leaden and aching with disappointment in his stomach, and he goes still and doesn't look at John anymore.

Of course, John hadn't meant it _that_ way, and now Sherlock's gone and made it awkward and difficult for John, and maybe ruined things completely.

'Oh, right, yes,' he says miserably, 'of course. My mistake. You didn't mean – yes, quite. I'm sorry.'

'What?' John says. 'Wait, no! Sherlock, that's not…'

'I won't – won't mention it again,' Sherlock says, and turns his face to the other side and closes his eyes. Maybe John will just go, and leave him to his humiliation.

'God _dammit_ ,' John says suddenly, loudly. There's a beat of silence, filled lightly with the hum of the equipment and a pigeon cooing outside the window; and then John makes a funny little groaning sound and scrubs at his face with his hands. 'This is ridiculous,' he says, looking back up. 'No, don't _talk_ , Sherlock, just shut up a mo and listen, because I am utterly terrible at this sort of thing and I am going to say something very important to you very clearly and I'm not going to repeat myself, and we can bloody go from there.'

Sherlock's too afraid to move, but his eyes are somehow fixed on John's face again, and he can't tear them away. John takes a deep breath, shifts his gaze to a point on the pillow next to Sherlock's head.

'I. Love. You,' John says, very slowly and clearly. 'In a romantic and sexual and very much _not_ platonic kind of way.' He closes his eyes for a moment, squeezes them shut, then looks squarely back at Sherlock's face. 'And – if you still don't feel like that about me, it's fine,' he goes on, and his voice is quiet, now, 'it's all fine. But at least it's out in the open.' And he watches Sherlock's eyes, waiting.

Sherlock stares at him. Stares at John's face, John's beautiful face, John's round dark earnest eyes, the tiny fine lines of weariness at the corners of them. He tries to speak. Can't.

'Sherlock,' John says, 'you still there?'

Sherlock can't stop blinking.

'Hey, it's okay,' John says. 'It's fine, Sherlock, can you say something? Getting a bit weird now. God, that was terrible – terrible timing, wasn't it, that speech, _Christ._ I'm sorry.' His face is tired, pleading, worried, beloved. John, John.

Sherlock has to – has to do words, John's waiting for him to do words. 'I, er, what, you, I mean, you said, are you. What,' Sherlock says, and swallows. 'You really…'

'Yes,' John says quietly. 'I really do. I'm sorry.'

'But I thought. I thought it was just. Me,' Sherlock says incredulously, and remembers something. 'You had _girlfriends_ ,' he accuses.

'I had a _single date_ with _one woman!_ ' John says indignantly, 'Because _you_ said you weren't interested! And it was terrible, and she and me agreed we were better off as friends. _Jesus_ , Sherlock.'

'It was in my dream,' Sherlock says. 'But – worse. You kept wanting to have sex with her and I hated her and she nearly got killed by a Chinese arrow machine. And then there were more girlfriends, and I died and you got married to one of the girlfriends and I came back and she shot me and I died again and came back and you were still married to her. With a _baby_. And you – you hated me and you beat me up and kicked me but it was my fault.'

John looks at him. Blinks. Shakes his head a little bit. 'Okay,' John says, 'we are going to have to have a long talk about this dream, and all the things it reveals about your psyche, and we are especially going to have a discussion about the beating up bit. But, Sherlock,' and John's voice is going low, gentle, 'Sherlock, do you – want this? Give me something to go on, here, okay?'

'Yes!' Sherlock blurts, and John's face lights up like sunshine, so lovely, 'yes yes, I – I want, I really do, John, _yes_ ,' and he's starting to feel strange and fuzzy and not sure which way is up and down, and John's frowning a bit but not his angry frown, and his face is still shining, _suffused with happiness,_ and God, Sherlock needs to get it together if he's thinking things straight from the pages of a romance novel.

'Hey-y,' John says, drawing out the syllable as though he's soothing a child, and that should be annoying but it's not, John's voice is gentle and safe and nice. 'We'll talk about this later, okay? You should sleep.'

'Don't want – to,' Sherlock says petulantly.

But then John's hand is taking his own, and it's warm and roughened, and John's fingers are soothing across his skin, caressing across his knuckles and smoothing the veins at the backs of his hands. It feels soft and good, _real_ in a way that nothing in his dreams had been, a kind of anchor back to the safety of John Watson. John's talking quietly, and Sherlock's eyes are drooping closed despite himself, warm and comfortable and surrounded by John.

'Going to take you back to Angelo's,' John says quietly. 'Going to ask for a candle. Remember? Sorry about backtracking that time, by the way, but I was embarrassed and I didn't want things to be awkward between us. I thought you weren't interested, you ridiculous thing.' His voice is warm and soothing, laced with rueful amusement.

'M'sorry,' Sherlock says, and it's surprisingly easy to say it, half-asleep as he is. 'Did'n' know you yet.' He squeezes John's hand fumblingly, and John's fingers meet the pressure of his own and squeeze back.

'Yeah, we were pretty stupid,' John murmurs. His hand is in Sherlock's hair now, running gently through it, delicious soothing tingles following the stroke of his fingertips through the curls. It feels so nice, so – nice…

'Love you,' Sherlock mumbles contentedly, John's hand in his hair, and sleeps.

* * *

 _*dusts hands* Fixed. (In my head at least!) What did you think? I feel like there's scope to write more of this universe. For example, I have a weird idea that Sherlock would be all over Mrs Hudson to change the 'Mrs Hudson's Snacks 'n' Sarnies' sign:_

 _'Comic Sans, Hudders!_ Comic Sans! _It's an abomination. How can I exist in the same geographic location as_ Comic Sans? _' *flops dramatically back onto the couch*_

 _John, rolling his eyes and going back to reading his book/massaging Sherlock's feet, which are lying in his lap: 'Ignore him, Mrs Hudson.'_

 _Mrs Hudson, shaking her head fondly at them: 'Of course, John dear.'_

 _Sherlock, petulantly, from beneath a Union Jack cushion: 'I have seen things your tiny minds cannot imagine. That sign...'_

 _John, still reading: *reaches out and gently but firmly places his hand over Sherlock's mouth.*_

 _Me: *coughs* anyway, that just sort of happened._

 _Leave me a comment? Pretty please? :)_ _3_

 _Also, I have a tumblr (greymantledlady dot tumblr dot com), where I post ficlets, headcanons and other interesting stuff. Come over and scream/commiserate/flail with me!_


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